It has been a rough weekend emotionally. Well, a rough week: three memorial services between the 24th of February and the first of March. That’s three too many – one of the sorrows of living is having to go to memorials and funerals. I boycotted such services for a while after my little sister died – too hard on my emotionally. But I thought I could handle this.
Wrong.
The first memorial service was for an expected death: the man had a brain tumor and lived much longer than expected. His death was a mercy. But the memorial service was really strange. There was no eulogy. His brother got up and thanked everyone for coming, but the only activities were a luncheon and a slide show of photos from the man’s life, and a guitarist who played some non-descript music for a background. That was it. You could put together a scrap book page of him for the parents. But that was it. It was almost as if he never lived, but he did. I felt very sad about the service: there was no hope.
Saturday, we had back to back memorial services for men who committed suicide. The first was an 85 year old man, Lutheran by denomination, who took his life the Sunday we were at the first service. It was a small memorial, but he was well loved by his family, the old truck drivers he used to work with and the mechanics he used to work with. Don bought his tools from this man, way back when. The eulogy was well spoken, memories were shared, and the music was beautiful. They had a male soloist who sang “How Great Thou Art”, “Amazing Grace”, and “The Lord’s Prayer.”
We went from that service to the last. This one was the hardest on me, personally: it was held at the church my husband left about six years ago. I followed him about two years later, mostly because it was darn hard to go to the church where we had served as a team and have people ask about him constantly. I just started going back after this suicide – the man was a very dear friend and member of the church. He sat in an aisle seat on the aisle I ushered on, or my husband ushered on. When my husband left the church, he was an incredible support to me (as a man: his wife really embraced me and loved me through that difficult time). Same age as my husband: fifty.
I don’t know why he felt he had to take his life. He was married to the love of his life, his high school sweetheart, and they have three beautiful adult children, one in-law, and a grandson. To all appearances, life was beautiful for him. But somewhere in his soul, the voice of depression was talking, and it’s a very strong voice. I’ve heard that voice and I’ve wanted to listen to it — oh, to die would be so simple
It was a very beautiful service. The eulogy was long. The eldest daughter gave her own eulogy, which was touching and pointed. His siblings, including his twin brother, gave a eulogy. His siblings-in-law brought humor to the occasion (laughter is a form of grieving and is very healing: what wise siblings-in-law to know that and utilize that). The music: “It Is Well With My Soul” and “This House is a House of Restoration”. Actually, I’m not sure of the title of that song, only the lyrics: This house shall be called/a house of restoration…
The service concluded when a kilt-clad Scotsman (the deceased was a Campbell), played “Amazing Grace” on the bagpipes while marching through the sanctuary and out into the foyer, where the music faded as we prayed.
I would like to say that was all it was about: the memorial services and our fragile existence. Neither one of the services for the suicides brought up despair: they were only about hope and eternity and the love of God. All my life, I have been told suicides go to hell, and I questioned that because I can’t find in the Bible where Judas went to hell – only that Jesus loved him and gave him a job to do (betray him). Peter betrayed Jesus, too. Now, I have two influences in my life die as a result of suicide and their pastors, separately and independently, spoke about the loving arms of Jesus and the hope we have in Him, and how these men are now in Heaven, rejoicing with the saints.
That still isn’t my point. After everything, as we broke up the party and started toward the doors, I stopped to say goodbye to my beloved friend who is now the senior pastor’s wife. She and her husband have been faithful to that ministry since we met, almost 20 years ago. We have been best friends throughout that time and even during the time that I disappeared and joined the church-less. This suicide prompted me to rethink my reasons for not attending this church, and I have decided to return there. But someone said something and we found ourselves looking at each other and bawling – not about our friend who died, but about the past four years when my friend took the helm of the church and I wasn’t there to support her. Well, I was: I prayed for her and she knows that.
I am not certain I can put into words what I felt – what I know we both felt. I have come full circle. This woman remains my best friend. We have been through some seasons and then some, and our friendship has remained. It’s the sort of friendship that survives the refiner’s fire.
